Un colpo all'italiana
by redtaxi
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is sent to Florence for a case and brings a Ms. Hooper along for the trip with varying degrees of success. Sherlolly


This is an odd one. Set in a post RF universe, post Watson marriage, possibly in 'vague grey area' of pre-sherlolly.  
Sorry if it doesn't make sense.

* * *

The receptionist looked too idle for a woman who was obviously running a counterfeit sting underneath her concierge desk.

Or at least Sherlock deduces so, as he surveyed her fingertips, shuffling over the foreign paper notes.

With a broad smile, _Lucia_ hands him a set of keys and in her cluttered accent, bids Mr. Holmes a 'happy stay' at the Bernini Palace.

Her welcome is lost on our Detective as he walks away without reply, shoving his receipt into a travel cache, sliding it in between his passport.

As he passes the ristoriante, he walks by the brisk Direttore d'Albergo (Lucia's superior) but any notion of dobbing in the receptionist is quickly squashed by his sudden disinterest, his attention drawn towards the sight of a sleeping figure, lounged onto a vintage seatee in the lobby.

He's not mindful as he pulls his suitcase from underneath her arms, instantly jolting her out of her slumber.

Molly squints wearily at him before asking in a yawn, "Did they change the room?"

Nodding, he thrusts a set of keys to her, along with a bundle of brochures he'd pinched from the concierge desk.

She picks up 'The Roman's Guide to Florence' with a hesitant smile. "So I sight see while you'll-"

"You can stay in your room for the whole trip if it pleases you." He replies dryly.

"So we won't be working together."

"I'll be occupied for most of the day." The seriousness of his words are hollowed by a sudden screech from the far end of the lobby. Sherlock swirls around to see the entrance invaded by a loud gathering of a chatty Italian family.

Molly stands up from the lounge, Sherlock watches the form of her back stretch as she bends down to retrieve her suitcase.

He waits until she gestures sleepily towards the staircase, "Shall we?"

* * *

The case could have been resolved within a day of his arrival. However tampered evidence, conflicting alibis and the presence of an disingenuous police force weighed heavily on Sherlock's options.

He found solace in his arsenal of Italian swears (diplomacy put aside) and in the quiet nights of the hotel.

The fourth night, he arrives late, just as dusk begins to cast the city into a orange shade. Sherlock knows she'll be waiting for him regardless, as she so done for the past three nights.

At first, he admits his impatience with Molly's habit of waiting up but soon enough her habit became his, her welcoming smile was more a comfort he'll cared to let on.

Somewhat dishearten by her empty room, the unanswered knocks at her door, he ventures downstairs, to the lobby, to the ristoriante before he leads towards to the outside patio.

Amongst a scatter of thick trees and rustic tables, he finds her. As he sits down, she begins to read out loud from her book in an impassioned tone.

"Simonetta Vespucci, a beautiful noblewoman, is thought to be the model behind Venus. It was rumoured that Botticelli loved her unrequitedly for most of his life. That love was even carried through death as the painter asked to be buried by Vespucci's feet."

Sherlock flicks the table's candle with his fingers, "You'll strain your eyes under this light."

She ignores him, "I've never seen Botticelli until today."

Despite the dim light, Sherlock can see her nose, cheeks are tainted pink with sun. "A year ago, you might not have. The original was only returned last October."

He delights in having stumped her but her confusion soon falls into a secretive smile.

Sherlock, having no doubt that Molly would catch onto more than his words, leans back in his chair, awaiting to serve her curious questions but instead she returns to her book, stripping him of the opportunity for a boast.

"Pleasant day?" She asks.

Sherlock sulks in his chair. "Quite the opposite."

"Only you would suffer in Italy."

"Well, unlike you- I am not on holiday."

She looks up from her book, a sober expression replacing the smile. "You didn't ask me to join you on holiday. I'm here as 'John's substitute'."

He doesn't flinch as his own words are tossed back to him; recalling the exact phrase he used to coerce her into joining him here.

He clucks his tongue in a dismissive manner, "Yes,-Perhaps, I was hasty in that decision."

She shrugs to the surprise of Sherlock, "I don't mind. Florence is growing on me."

As he looks over her, taking in her sun burnt skin, her relaxed smiles, Sherlock can't find it in him to disagree.

* * *

Sherlock carefully held onto the bottle of Brunello di Montalcino as he walked up the hotel staircase. The rather impromptu purchase was going to be his treat for what could only be described as a most egregious case.

But he was already thinking about the evening, sharing his bottle with Molly. Perhaps she'll share one of her anecdotes, just as she does every night. A silly one to wear away the dull memories of the day. However stupid her anecdotes were, they serve well to divert his mind, a distraction he so required.

Perhaps, she'll grace him with more of her laughter, the giggles that erupt whenever he recounts the dramas of his case.

Yes, he would like that.

As he climbs the first steps, he hears a laugh. A boisterously familiar laugh.

He quickly turns to the sound, where he unexpectedly spots Molly, sitting beside two men he recognises as the reception staff. His vague fantasy, playing inside his mind, dispels instantly.

The three of them continue without any notice to the man now loudly treading up the staircase.

* * *

He doesn't see her for the next two days (a conscious choice or not). He arrives back too late to catch her before bed and soon, he realises, she too has given up the waiting, no more welcoming smiles or hearty laughs for him. He imagines she's giving them out to the rest of the waiting staff of the hotel.

The loss is no skin off his nose, he reaffirms as he stares vacantly around his room.

The muffled noise from the night-time crowd outside, the Italian heat all convince Sherlock of a good walk to revert his bad mood but just as he comes downstairs, he bumps into her.

She fans herself with a floppy hat, her cheeks are as red as her floral sun dress. Sherlock feels a odd drop in his stomach as Molly's smile widens at the sight of him.

"You're back!"

"Yes." He answers noncommittally. "Not for long-"

"I'd thought you might have run off and I-"

He interrupts, "Yes, well-Goodnight."

He's abrupt, purposely so but Molly doesn't appear to mind, leaning forward into him, too close, much closer than he has felt for days.

"Are you-Are you alright, Sherlock?"

In that moment, he hates her. He hates how in her absence, he becomes alone. He had his case on mind, his work at hand. And yet he stood in that hotel room, feeling cold as if something was missing.

So he lies.

"Perfectly alright, Molly. I'm just glad to see you're enjoying your _holiday_."

With that, he strides past her, ignoring the urge to look back upon the staircase.

* * *

"_Buonanotte signore!_" Lucia saucily calls out to Sherlock as he walks past the receptionist in the corridor. Hardly appropriate, given that it was nearly past two and Sherlock was making his way reluctantly, back to his room.

He opens the door, spraying the room in harsh light for only a moment before it returns to its soft darkness. The window has been left open, the noise of Lucia's crowd downstairs can be heard all too well.

Sherlock walks across the room to close it just as-

"Don't. The air conditioning's done for."

He turns slowly to face her. Molly is sitting on the far edge of the bed, watching him carefully.

"You shouldn't have asked me to come." She starts.

"I needed an companion-"

"No, you didn't but you asked me anyway."

"-Yes, I did." Sherlock answers, a little dazed by Molly's sudden bite. He hadn't expected her to see through him so quickly.

Molly stands up from the bed, only two steps later before she's standing in front of him, head tilted up.

"I don't think I am John's substitute." She murmurs just loudly enough for Sherlock to hear, her words are tracking too close to a truth Sherlock has yet to realise.

They're stuck in a intense look together when an abrupt yell from below echoes, stirring them awake. Molly then sighs, walking over to the window to shut it tight.

"Will you stay?" The question comes out, hurried and desperate, regardless of his attempts to hold it in.

Molly turns back towards him, a welcoming smile upon her lips.

* * *

thank you possums.


End file.
